


I Never

by Kantayra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and John play 'I Never'...in a manner of speaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Never

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=24330558#t24330558) on sherlockbbc_fic. Not to be taken at all seriously.

“I still fail to see the point of this activity.” Sherlock stared at the shot glass from inches away as if trying to penetrate its molecular structure solely with the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s a game. It helps us get to know each other. It helps us get drunk. It’s fun,” John said wearily.

“Games are boring. I already know you. For example, I know that you woke up with a headache this morning, were splashed by a passing taxi on your way to work, and suffered through at least three hypochondriacs and one spoiled child with an overbearing mother. Alcohol is a distraction. So is ‘fun’.” Sherlock made a face at the last word, like it was actively offensive to him in some unfathomable way.

“I—” John wanted to argue, but he couldn’t resist. It was like a compulsion. “Okay, you noticed the pain-killers in the bathroom this morning, and I have mud stains on my shins. But…the three hypochondriacs?”

“Your eagerness to get drunk.”

“I always have a drink after work.”

“Your eagerness to get drunk and drag _me_ into it.”

“And the spoiled child?”

“The word ‘poopy’ is written on the back of your left trouser leg in orange crayon. Presumably done without your knowledge whilst you were distracted managing the overbearing mother.”

“God, I need a drink!” John groaned in frustration when he twisted his trouser leg around enough to see it.

Sherlock, to John’s surprise, nodded in acquiescence. “Is this how one does it, then? I’ve never…cast aside a perfectly good opportunity to solve an interesting problem in favor of making inane small talk with a dreadfully boring member of the opposite sex, because I am a slave to arbitrary hormonal fluctuations.”

“No,” John glared at him, “more along the lines of: I’ve never crashed my flatmate’s date and then got him and his date nearly murdered by Chinese gangsters.”

“I’ve never inflicted my comma splices upon the unsuspecting public via the internet.”

“Well, I’ve never abused a perfectly respectable game that was meant to be in good fun to insult my flatmate.”

“I’ve never destroyed what little intelligence I possess by drowning my problems in alcohol.”

“What about, oh, I don’t know… _Cocaine_?” John demanded.

Sherlock waved this aside. “Cocaine is a stimulant; alcohol, a depressant. While cocaine promotes the creative process, alcohol merely dulls the wits.”

“You know what else cocaine ‘promotes’? _Addiction to cocaine_!”

“You’re not playing your own game,” Sherlock chided John entirely unfairly, John thought. “I’ve never breathed, actually enjoyed breathing, and argued with my flatmate for solid half an hour how enjoyable breathing was.”

“You were being ridiculous,” John insisted.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You really were. And you’re doing it again now.”

“Fine. Then, I’ve never wasted five whole minutes of my life in loud sexual congress, while my flatmate was downstairs trying to think.” Sherlock sat back in his chair with a particularly smug smile on his face.

John sputtered.

“Go on. Dilute your brain.” Sherlock gestured to bottle between them.

“You…” John took a moment to check himself and then said, “At least _I’ve_ never brought home a dead calf, exsanguinated it in the bathtub, and then filled the fridge with jugs of its blood!”

Sherlock blinked up at him in disbelief. “Surely, you’re joking?”

John frowned. “What?”

“Who _hasn’t_ done that?” Sherlock blinked innocently.

John fought back the resurgence of his headache, grabbed the bottle, and drank nearly half of it in one, long swallow.

“Feeling better now?” Sherlock asked when John had blinked away his suddenly blurred vision.

“God, yes,” John agreed. “Up for another round?”

Sherlock’s smile was downright diabolical.


End file.
